Verner's Pride eBook

“I am about to marry,” said Lionel, plunging
into the news headlong. “And I fear that
you will not approve my choice. Nay, I know you
will not.”

A foreshadowing of the truth came across her then.
She grew deadly pale, and put up her hands, as if
to ward off the blow. “Oh, Lionel! don’t
say it! don’t say it!” she implored.
“I never can receive her.”

“Yes, you will, mother,” he whispered,
his own face pale too, his tone one of painful entreaty.
“You will receive her for my sake.”

“Is it—­she?”

The aversion with which the name was avoided was unmistakable.
Lionel only nodded a grave affirmative.

“Have you engaged yourself to her?”

“I have. Last night.”

“Were you mad?” she asked in a whisper.

“Stay, mother. When you were speaking against
Sibylla at breakfast, I refrained from interference,
for you did not then know that defence of her was
my duty. Will you forgive me for reminding you
that I cannot permit it to be continued, even by you?”

“But do you forget that it is not a respectable
alliance for you?” resumed Lady Verner.
“No, not a respectable—­”

“I cannot listen to this; I pray you cease!”
he broke forth, a blaze of anger lighting his face.
“Have you forgotten of whom you are speaking,
mother? Not respectable!”

“I say that it is not a respectable alliance
for you—­Lionel Verner,” she persisted.
“An obscure surgeon’s daughter, he of not
too good repute, who has been out to the end of the
world, and found her way back alone, a widow, is not
a desirable alliance for a Verner. It would not
be desirable for Jan; it is terrible for you?”

“We shall not agree upon this,” said Lionel,
preparing to take his departure. “I have
acquainted you, mother, and I have no more to say,
except to urge—­if I may do so—­that
you will learn to speak of Sibylla with courtesy,
remembering that she will shortly be my wife.”

Lady Verner caught his hand as he was retreating.

“Lionel, my son, tell me how you came to do
it,” she wailed. “You cannot love
her! the wife, the widow of another man! It must
have been the work of a moment of folly. Perhaps
she drew you into it!”

The suggestion, “the work of a moment of folly,”
was so very close a representation of what it had
been, of what Lionel was beginning to see it to have
been now, that the rest of the speech was lost to him
in the echo of that one sentence. Somehow, he
did not care to refute it.

“She will be my wife, respected and honoured,”
was all he answered, as he quitted the room.

Lady Verner followed him. He went straight out,
and she saw him walk hastily across the courtyard,
putting on his hat as he traversed it. She wrung
her hands, and broke into a storm of wailing despair,
ignoring the presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest.